


Headlights

by Lulu_The_Real_Slytherpuff



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Mental Illness, Panic Attack, Toronto Maple Leafs, Unspecified Mental Illness, the three headed monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 01:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15449889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lulu_The_Real_Slytherpuff/pseuds/Lulu_The_Real_Slytherpuff
Summary: And it’s like a satellite is falling from the sky; an earthquake shifting the ground underneath him; two headlights in the distance hurtling full speed towards him and he can’t get out of the way in time.______________Alternatively: a look into mental illness and it's impact on people.





	Headlights

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is of three people dealing with different mental illnesses in three seperate moments. 
> 
> Trigger Warning:  
> \- description of depression  
> \- detailed panic attack  
> \- unspecified mental illness that could be depersonalisation*
> 
> *please note I have chosen not to specify the last mental illness as I do not want to spread misinformation
> 
> I am not a mental health expert and while as an author I provide a voice for people who suffer with mental illness; this is based off my own experience, and therefore it should be noted that my experience could and most likely is vastly different from other people.

  1. _Mitch_



 

It feels like death.

 

Scratch that.

 

If death could be a feeling then Mitch would prefer it to the empty, numbness that somehow sits heavy in his chest.

 

It’s a lightness in his head that fills him with guilt. It’s a fatigue that travels from the tips of his toes all throughout his body and up to the top of his head. It’s yearning to get up and _do_ something but the stubbornness of his mind and body preventing him from filling a glass up to take a sip of water; to turn the AC of because he is shivering violently under the thin cotton sheets; to pick up the phone and call someone because despite the voices in his head telling him no one loves him, he needs to hear someone, anyone’s voice to bring him back to the present.

 

Mitch’s depression isn’t long thin scars decorating his arms and legs like artwork; it isn’t loud sobs or failed attempts to swallow one too many pills, cut too deep or run aimlessly into busy traffic. It’s more like the constant need to shed tears that refuse to leak from his eyes. It’s a guilt that pushes heavy into his chest and presses down so hard on his ribcage that sometimes his breaths come out in long, shaky rattles that morph into gasps over an empty toilet bowl 3am Tuesday morning.

 

Mitch’s depression hits during the hours he spends alone, surrounded by nothing but the sound of his own thoughts making a mockery of the pale boy lying naked on the bathroom tiles. A constant reminder that he is nothing. That when he dies, all he’ll ever be was nothing.

 

So, it feels like death in a way. What with Mitch’s mind fading in and out of existence, the inability to feel anything except nothing, and,

 

and the harsh reminder of his own insanity staring back at him as he washes his face avoiding the bathroom mirror.

 

 

  1. _Auston_



He takes the wrong exit at a roundabout and finds himself struggling for breath.

 

he can’t do this.

 

he can’t do this.

 

he can’t do this.

 

It’s only a right turn into a suburban street and then a quick drive around the block to get back up to the correct exit but Auston finds himself parked up on the side of the road; tears streaming down his face, and his breath caught in his throat and his punches the steering wheel repeatedly.

 

“Fuck, I can’t do this”

 

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

 

It’s a wrong exit and Auston knows he’s over-reacting but his body is screaming _end of the world_ to him, and his phone is flat, the car’s low on petrol, he doesn’t know where he is,

 

he doesn’t know where he is

he doesn’t know where he is

he doesn’t know where he is

he doesn’t know where he is

he doesn’t know where he is

his phone is flat

he doesn’t know where he is

he can’t breathe

he can’t breathe

why is the car so hot?

GODDAMMIT _he doesn’t know where he is!_

 

 

And it’s like a satellite is falling from the sky; an earthquake shifting the ground underneath him; two headlights in the distance hurtling full speed towards him and he can’t get out of the way in time. It’s like feeling every and nothing all at once; and his hand is dinting the logo on the steering wheel but he can’t bring himself to care because the pain slows the headlights down.

 

And

 

And his breath evens out.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

Slowly, like a normal person.

 

It’s a quick drive around the block to get back to the exit. Auston knows this because he can see the signs posted heavily everywhere. He brings a hand to his eyes and wipes away the stray tears, takes a deep breath and turns the engine back on.

 

 

  1. _Willy_



The pale, blond haired, blue eyed boy that stares back at Willy has tears coursing gently down his face. The boy does not flinch, does not move a muscle in the presence of Willy. Willy brings a hand up in front of his face and watches as the blond boy does the same. Runs his hands through his thick blond hair just like Willy; blinks his eyes just like Willy; he even cocks his head the same way, staring back at Willy curiously.

 

But the boy in the mirror is not Willy.

He might have the same eyes, the same smile, the same hair but it’s not him. Just like the body he is in isn’t his. Like how the hand he is currently holding up in front of his face is not his hand. Sure, it might feel what Willy feels, and it moves when Willy tells it to but it’s not his. It doesn’t feel like his and Willy wants nothing more than to rip the thing off.

 

Just like his feet aren’t his or his face.

 

Just like the boy in the mirror looks like Willy but he _isn’t_ Willy.

 

He shakes ‘his’ hands, and slowly manoeuvres his way through the apartment. Feet taking him to the sofa and hands tapping the wall all the way down to it. The apartment feels different, looks different; like he’s seeing it from someone else’s eyes.

 

Because he is.

 

Because the this is not Willy’s body, and the gentle pitter-patter of feet down the hallway are not from his feet.

 

The body leads him to the sofa and sits down in it, and the hands continue tapping each bit of furniture and each part of the body until Willy’s vision is no longer tunnelling. Until the hand tapping the coffee table in front of him becomes his own again, and the pitter-patter of his feet are from _his_ feet again.

 

When Willy returns to the mirror; he is greeted by the reflection of a pale, blond haired, blue eyed boy. The boy lifts his hand up at the same time Willy does; cocks his head the same way and his eyes fill with the same relief when the boy in the mirror is Willy’s own reflection.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive critiscism is always welcome and much appreciated :)
> 
> I will admit writing Willy's part was the hardest thing I have ever written and I found it quite triggering even as I wrote it. I chose not to specify the mental illness I am referring to as I currently have no diagnosis and therefore do not want to spread misinformation. While writing Willy's part I had an episode which left me feeling like my hands weren't my own and I genuinely wanted to rip them off. It was quite a terrifying experience and while I have had moments where I feel like my body is not my own, I have never wanted to chop my own hands off before. 
> 
> Please, if you ever feel sad or hurt, or just like you need someone to talk to, reach out to a friend or family member. If that is not an option for you then I am more than happy to be someone who you can talk to. You can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hit-em-with-the-fourr%22) :)


End file.
